


a convenient lack of potato sacks, and other disasters

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Jon Snow Has No Chill, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: prompt fill (anon): “i’m gonna need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”also inspired by my best girl @ghostofbambi’s observation that while jon’s ability to speak to sansa may come off like the jeopardy theme song, his inner monologue goes full “la bamba” whenever she’s around





	a convenient lack of potato sacks, and other disasters

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i was going to wait to start this series on october 1st, as part of my birthday project initiative. but then i decided to hell with it, it’s *my* birthday project and i’ll start it whenever i please. (plus, i’m reworking some of my drabbles to include as well, so this has also turned into an overhaul of my old work.)

“I’m gonna need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”

Jon doesn’t know what possessed him to say the words aloud. He suspects that, after two months of Sansa’s constant presence in the flat he shares with Robb, this is just the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d been lusting after her for, what, five years now? (No, that can’t be right, Jon tells himself whenever the thought crosses his mind. But, of course, it is.) And now here she is, standing in his doorway in nothing but a bath sheet, a headband, and a frown.

“Robb’s out for the night,” she’d told him on her way back from the shower. Which, incidentally, is right next to his bedroom, so naturally Jon had been entertaining all sorts of thoughts when he heard the water running and Sansa singing. “I was going to do takeaway for dinner. D’you want anything in particular? On me?”

So, to recap: Sansa’s in a towel, in the doorway to his bedroom, telling him they’ll be left unsupervised all night, and she’s offering to buy him dinner.

Jon’s a good person, okay? He doesn’t deserve this. She just broke his goddamn brain. It’s no wonder the first thing he said to her was that she needed to put some clothes on. But Jon supposes it’s only fair that she looks so confused as a result of his outburst.

He means to clarify his request, but the next thing he says is perhaps worse than the first: “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Jon?” Sansa seems concerned for his sanity. Jon must admit he shares in her worry. “I just asked what you wanted for dinner—”

“I need you to put some underwear on. Or… anything.” Jon nods firmly. It’s the nod of a man who’s making all the sense in the world, when in fact Jon is no such man. He sounds like an idiot, but he continues nonetheless resolutely. “You know what, I need you to get dressed entirely. In a parka, maybe. Have you got a parka?”

Oh, who is he kidding? He’d still fuck her in a parka. He’d definitely fuck her in a parka. No question. In fact, there’s little that Sansa Stark could wear that _wouldn’t_ set alarm bells off in Jon’s head—and by “little,” he means nothing. There’s not a stitch of clothing she could wear that would make him think, “You know what? Nah, I’d rather not.” The suggestion alone is nothing short of blasphemous.

Does that make him pathetic? Probably. But the blood isn’t exactly flowing to his brain at the moment, so he’ll forgive his lovesick puppy self just this once. He’s usually more self-deprecating but, again, his blood is currently traveling to the wrong head so… It is what it is. He just needs Sansa to wear something that’s not a towel. Or a parka, apparently. Perhaps a habit. Or one of those _Scream_ masks.

Whatever. His mind’s gone haywire. Jon really doesn’t know what Sansa could possibly put on that would set him straight. Again, he’s not sure that anything would do the trick at this point. Like… He’s going to have to fuck her. That’s it. There’s no other way.

That probably isn’t an advisable seduction technique, Jon thinks. Thankfully—for once—he manages to keep his mouth shut, as he intended to do.

Sansa, however, has no such intentions. She’s openly smirking at him now, barely holding back a laugh when she asks “What’s the matter with you?” so _clearly_ she knows _perfectly well_ what’s the matter with him, god damn it.

He gestures wildly in her general direction. “You’re _naked_.”

“I am not,” she scoffs. She tugs at the end of her bath sheet; embarrassingly, Jon almost yelps when it looks as though she might pull the thing off, but she secures it in due course. “I’m decent enough. I’d even answer the door like this. I _have_ answered the door like this.”

“Good god, for _who_?”

“The pizza guy.”

“Oh my god, I’m never tipping him again.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but the smirk is still in place. “You’re overreacting.”

Jon is quite mindful of this fact, but his self-awareness does nothing to stave off the panic. It’s far too late for that. The panic is now an integral part of his genetic make-up. He wonders—fleetingly and stupidly—whether this will make the possibility of Sansa dropping that towel and pouncing on him more or less likely.

He comes to when Sansa starts snapping her fingers at him.

“I know you’re busy having some sort of fit at the moment,” she says, none too apologetically, “but I’m hungry. What do you want for dinner?”

Jon’s eyes drop—completely involuntarily, by the way—to the apex of her thighs. He isn’t particularly subtle about it. Surely this isn’t an advisable seduction technique, either, but Sansa’s already laughing at him. She’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

“You’re being a perv!”

“Well, you’re being— _naked_ ,” Jon reiterates, as though this excuses his lecherous behavior. “I told you, I can’t talk to you right now. Go find a parka.” _No, you sod, you already decided you’d still try to fuck her in a parka._ “Or a potato sack.”

“How many potatoes do you think we eat,” Sansa wants to know, “that we’d have an empty sack large enough to fit me lying around?”

She has a point, Jon is forced to admit. They certainly don’t have an empty potato sack anywhere in the flat. _God_ , he laments privately, but there’s no justice in this world. He resolves to eat more potatoes from now on; it’s the right thing to do—the _noble_ thing, even.

Jon wonders if he’s always harbored this inability to find his chill, or if Sansa just brings out all this hot-headed, blubbering impulsivity in him. He also wonders if he’s having an anxiety attack. Sansa might have been joking when she said he was clearly in the middle of some kind of fit, but Jon thinks that may very well be the case.

Really, she shouldn’t be joking about that; Jon is rather surprised that she would do such a thing, since the Sansa he knows—admires, drools over, loves with the fire of a thousand suns, would very much like to marry someday if he could just calm down for ten seconds—is usually so empathetic. But she’s enjoying herself far too much at the moment, so Jon is rather inclined to believe she’s got more of a thing for schadenfreude than she does compassion these days.

“This isn’t funny,” he tells her. He tries for a scolding tone, but that only makes her giggles more pronounced. “Stop laughing.”

It comes as no surprise to Jon when his demand is ignored. Instead, Sansa snorts and says, “I’ll stop laughing when this stops being hilarious.”

He bristles, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “What’s so funny about it, exactly?”

“You’re so _flustered_.”

This is undeniably true, and yet Jon finds her assessment rather unfair, all things considered. He tries to be reasonable when he points out that “You’d be flustered too, if I was trying to strike up casual conversation without any clothes on.”

“Oh, is that it, then?” Sansa schools her expression into one of utmost seriousness. “Well, go on, take your shirt off and we’ll call it even.”

Jon gapes at her, never mind that little jump of his pulse at the thought of getting even half-naked in such close proximity to Sansa. “I’m not taking my shirt off!”

“Fine.” She shrugs as if the whole affair is of no real consequence to her, then bobs her head at his belt buckle. “Your trousers, then.”

“Stop trying to get me naked,” Jon counters because he’s a bloody fool. If he actually cared about his own well-being, he would have stripped by now. Who is he to deny Sansa of her apparent interest in his state of dress, even if she is only taking the mickey? “Now who’s the perv?”

“You’ve got me there,” Sansa admits without a shred of mortification, as all the embarrassment in the world is currently preoccupied with plaguing Jon. She sighs, indulgent and a bit overdramatic, continuing to enjoy herself far too much for Jon’s taste, and says, “I suppose we’re both thoroughly debauched.”

“This is not funny,” he says again, although he doesn’t know why this reproach should affect her when the first one had done no such thing. Indeed, she is no more moved by his pouting now than she has been for the entirety of this conversation.

Sansa shakes her head, chuckling even as she comes to a resolution. “Okay, I’ll leave you to pull yourself together, but I’m ordering from that Thai place you hate so much.”

“I don’t hate it!” Jon flings his hands into the air, because her legs are too long and he’s lost control of himself because of it. “It’s mediocre!”

“Fine,” Sansa says again. She pushes off the doorframe and starts down the hall to her room, talking all the while, “We’re having mediocre takeaway for our first date, and you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

If it were possible, Jon is sure that she’s broken his brain all over again.

“What?” He sticks his head out of the doorway, watching her, demanding an explanation now that one of his many, _many_ colorful dreams about Sansa Stark is being brought to life by her own hand. “What did you say? Date? We’ve got a date?”

Jon can see Sansa’s sigh when her shoulders drop, but then she spins on her heel and she’s grinning at him again. They’re alone in the flat, she’s _naked_ and _smiling_ at him, she’s buying him dinner, and evidently she’s decided that they’re dating now.

His brain isn’t broken so much now as it’s suddenly playing a celebratory chorus of “La Bamba” at full volume. (Why this song, he’s not quite sure; but it’s always been “La Bamba” when it comes to Sansa. Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure it had been lowkey playing in his head ever since she showed up at his door and he lost his chill once and for all.)

“Yes, Jon,” Sansa says, her pretty mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a smile. “We’ve got a date. And by the end of it, I really hope you get over this thing with the potato sacks and take your pants off for me.”

Too torn between shock and awe to do anything else, Jon merely swallows and nods vigorously. Sansa is certainly satisfied with his response, and continues on her merry, half-naked way down the hall.

As he watches her—unashamedly now, and thoroughly appreciative—Jon decides that, as noble a pursuit as the over-consumption of potatoes may be, he’s quite glad that they haven’t got any empty sacks lying around, after all.


End file.
